


Skeleton Songs

by justhavesex



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M, and uhhh, choo choo, mentions of children being murdered?, mostly because it inspired by Dark Places by Gillian Flynn, um........ this is a bit dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:45:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justhavesex/pseuds/justhavesex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan is a mediocre blogger with content relating to which movies he loves and hates and Phil is his biggest fan. For other reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

 

 

He's crooked.

When people say they're crooked usually they'll provide the imagery of sharp crooked lines, a pair of sharp fangs in the middle of the creepy pre-schooler drawing, but Dan isn't a bunch of scribbles with a pair of sharp fangs in the center, a dark smile on the face of the black ball of fury. No, he's something much more sinister than that. He's a blob of red, the thumb print of somebody's blood pressed into paper, or maybe on good days a drop of red ink—the sort of inking in which it's rough around the corners and not smooth at all—that's what he is: crooked and red.

His childhood was spit-balls to the back of his head, his mother's tears soaking through their table cloths after every dinner. And news clippings. Reporters. Counselors. His name is a curse, Daniel James Howell.  _Howell_  being the part which haunts his past, present and future.  _The Howeller_  they called his father in the news, and honestly, Dan thinks of the oddly suiting nickname as completely stupid. His father had been proud of the name, his fucked-up straight from hell father was  _happy_  with the name. That really should've put a stop the circulating name. It didn't. His father was a real creep even among creeps, rumour has it that his dad once upon a time kidnapped kids and shot them up with so much drugs they were singing hymns from the Bible, his father at the center stage. 14 dead, 3 survivors. His dad liked their voices pretty.

Dan was not alive during this period of time, by some sort of sick fate his mother was already 5 months pregnant when his dad was convicted, which was then followed by suicide, and here he is. Crooked little red Daniel James Howell. Something within him was never right, maybe it was the never having friends be part of his life, or maybe it was his mother's lack of care, her eyes always shifting away from his, unable to look to the child she conceived with a  _monster_ , maybe it was the reporters that did him in. But he was never  _right_. Sometimes he muses on the idea of changing his name and getting enough plastic surgery so that nothing from Daniel James Howell is left behind. Maybe he'd become normal then, maybe he could be somebody but his wicked father's offspring. Maybe he could then, and only then, live for the future and not for what his past was.

Well, it was harder when he was a teen. Now he's a reclusive adult that writes mediocre blog content about the biggest hits and misses of movies and TV shows that year, his online persona being ' _Danisnotonfire_ ' he doesn't know why he picked that as his name, was it because his father burned children? Sometimes he feels like his psychiatrist is muttering in the back of his brain telling him some bullshit like ' _Maybe you feel guilty because you're alive and those kids aren't_ ', honestly, what could he have done? He wasn't even  _alive_. Guilt or not, the name stuck and here he is, making 65 thousand a year for writing about his favourite things, so he considers himself pretty successful at the current moment. He works for Google, in a sense, does their fucking bidding and replies to their emails once a blue moon, they know of his name, they don't really care.

Actually, they'd probably like it better if he'd write about his father. He won't. Didn't even know the man, honestly, what would he write about a dead guy that he has no affiliation with aside from genetics? How  _stupid_. Or maybe Google is still secretly hoping he'll let his real name slip and the whole of the internet will have his throat hanging, mean comments of ' _Satan's Son!_ ' or ' _Fucking creep_!' that'd probably flood his dashboard. Honestly, if all else fails, he'll make sure to pop his name up: he'd get a lot of page view counts for that.

Unlike his mother though, he isn't a sell out. A year after the accident, his mother fired from her job because her reviews were ' _not satisfactory_ '—which was bullshit for nobody wanted to be near the woman that fucked the guy that burned and drugged children—his mother was contacted by a publisher to which she had a stupid book called: Burned Inside, published. It was a big hit. Idiots from all over the world gobbled the shit up with their hungry greedy little mouths, eager to hear the stories of those that weren't even  _affected_. What about the victims families? He can see it, little Cindy Welch's parents throwing his mother's book in a fire and wishing she'd drop dead.

Again he can hear his psychiatrist muttering in his head  _if it isn't guilt, why do you know all the victims names?_

He tells the voice to fuck off, he's busy, and leans backwards into his leather chair.

He's only really reminiscing about the past because today is the day he was born. Crooked Dan is a crooked 21, a drop-out from law school—because his professor had spelled it out for him: nobody wants a lawyer that had a father that murdered children—he never liked law school anyway. Law school was full of idiots trying to pick his head apart for clues. He would've dropped out of high school too, but it was mere stubbornness and willpower that kept him going. He didn't want to be like his mother, a dead sloppy sell-out. He guesses it's all turned out okay, he's 21 with a stable job and nobody really spits at him anymore. Sure he still doesn't have friends, but hey, he's a firm believer in take what you can get. He opens up his email, not surprised to find that his mother has taken to emailing him a curt impersonal ' _Happy birthday, Dan!_ ' followed by some cheesy picture of a cat, and a generic happy birthday message from his employer, because she's nice like that. She even sends him Christmas cards every second year, sometimes she forgets, but Dan always remembers to send her one.

Really if it wasn't for her he'd probably still be living with his mother, and honestly, being homeless is better than that. He'll send his aunt and uncle a Christmas card too, mostly because they always send him one out of politeness, so Dan sends them one too. Though his card is more of a reminder that he's alive and  _not_  fucked up, plus he feels like it's a big: FUCK YOU to his aunt. He's never too surprised for when he goes over for Christmas dinner—mostly coerced to by his mother, because she hates going and her sister hates her there, but the two still keep seeing each other for some fucked up reason—and always spots his card in the trash. His aunt always tells him she hated his father from the very moment she met him, she'll always look at Dan long and hard at those awkward pauses, as though searching for the same thing she had saw in his father, she never really finds it.

He feels like he's a big joke. As though he should be more than he really is. Everybody thinks he's going to be like his dad, like father like son, but he isn't crazy. Sure he talks to himself in a creepy way but that's because he's  _lonely_ —what else is he supposed to talk to if not himself? He literally has no friends.  _None_. He speaks to a total of three people a year, at most. His employer. His mother. His aunt. And none of them are subsequent to be considered actual conversations, simply greetings or 'Hey Dan, can you write an article for this current issue! Get back to me soon as possible!' Fucking hell. Maybe he is crazy, or is going to be driven into insanity from the lack of human interaction. He can see it now, news clippings of ' _The Howeller Cub! Kills mother!_ ' on every subway line, every news station in TV and—

"Wow Dan," he mutters to himself, pushing himself away from his desk as he heads to the fridge, "Thinking about murder on your birthday. A new personal low."

He throws himself onto his couch, popping open his phone and nestling himself there with the intent to put the TV on to fill the silence while he scrolls through the comments on his blog, and looks for other movies or TV shows he can watch. Maybe he'll be productive today and finish that article due next week. Maybe. He pauses, stopping as a new email flicks on his notifications.

_phillester@gmail.com_

_Subject: Hey Dan!_

Who?

Dan strongly considers simply deleting the email, but it's his birthday, and maybe Phil is some high school classmate that wants to invite Dan to their high school reunion or something. Dan would reject, but it'd be nice to be invited. He flicks it open, squinting at the bulky text.

_Hey Dan!_

_I'm a huge fan of your blog, and I had asked Sarah for your email so I could email you with a job proposal, sorry if this seems slightly creepy by the way. I was wondering if you would like to try hosting the BBC 1 radio show? It would require that you to co-host the show with me every Monday, and I think you would be a great fit. But before everything is set out I'd like to do a try-out of the sorts, so please email me back what day would be good and whether or not you're interested._

_Love, Phil Lester_.

Dan snorts at the ending, because what grown man ends their business proposals with ' _Love Phil Lester_ '. Maybe he's really desperate, because he emails Phil Lester back with his  _I'd be interested in taking up the job here's my number_ , and he half expects Phil Lester to never email or call him again. Because who the  _fuck_  would just give somebody their number? Why did Dan give Phil Lester his number instead of just emailing him back? Fucking Crooked Dan, that's who. It's his birthday, and  _fuck_  if he's going to spend his 21st birthday without a single actual conversation. He needs human interaction.

He's slightly alarmed when his phone begins to ring from an unknown number. Which always happens because Dan refuses to save his aunt's and mother's contact information, so Dan really only has Domino's on his contacts.

"Hello?"

"Daniel Howell?"

His throat juts from the sound of his full name, he was slightly hoping this job wouldn't be because of his blood-line. "Yeah."

"Oh, hey, it's Phil." Phil sounds slightly breathless, as though he's half as depraved when it comes to human interaction as Dan is, and Dan wonders if it'd be considered ' _extremely rude_ '—as Sarah, his employer, likes to put it whenever Dan does or says anything—to cut off this phone call abruptly, really, this is slightly over-whelming. He's never had someone actually sound  _happy_  to say his name or to talk to him for more than five seconds. "So are you interested? What day would be best to do the trial run?"

"Maybe this is a bad idea," Dan says mostly to himself, "I'm not really good at public speaking."

"No, no!" Phil objects right away, as though almost half expecting Dan's reaction. "You have the voice of a radio host, Sarah really wants you to do it, she says it'd be good for you. Whatever that means."

Good for him, Dan wants to cry or at least get angry. Of  _course_  Sarah thinks it'd be good for him to leave his house and maybe make a friend, or well a temporary friend until they Google Dan Howell and figure out he's related to a fucking lunatic. Making friends leads to disappointments. Making friends leads to hopes and dreams and Dan can't deal with having his hopes and dreams crushed anymore than they already have. At his prolonged silence, Phil adds. "Why not just try it out? You might really like it."

Dan hesitates, "Any day is fine with me..."

"Great!" Phil chirps too loudly, and Dan leans away from the phone as though the sun is literally radiating through it, ready to burn half his face off. This entire conversation is fucking strange. Phil is fucking strange. "By the way Sarah asked me if you'd like me to hide your name, since the whole Howell incident I guess it's kind of hard. Do you have a pseudo name you'd prefer to be introduced with?"

Dan almost topples forward at that, Phil  _knows_  and is still talking to him all chirpy like?

Where's the abrupt strained conversation? The awkward line of questioning about his father? There's no  _'oh well_ ' when it comes to Dan and his family lineage. People either act as they don't care or try to seem eager to know more until to be disappointed to find out Dan is 100% normal and knows no more than everybody else about his father. ' _BAD IDEA_ ' signs are all over his mind, kind of like when he tried to audition for a play in sixth grade, or when he tried to sing the national anthem for his high school's football game. ' _BAD IDEA_ ' is something he doesn't mess with or oppose anymore. He learned not too, that he ought not too. He warily diverts his eyes from the warning.

"Um... I guess just call me Dan?"

"Alright," Phil agree's easily. "Does tomorrow at 11 AM work?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, see you then." Click. Done.

Dan squints at his phone, feeling slightly off-kiltered from the interaction. Well, he reaches for his TV remote, tomorrow he'll be able to properly place Phil into a category. Phil seems more like the morbidly curious type only to be let down by Dan.  _Good_ , he thinks,  _better them disappointed than me_.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Phil is like a bucket of glitter that got knocked over and onto everybody's clothes.

The first twenty minutes are of Dan being awkwardly shuffled into a cramped area full of other humanoid life-forms as he's introduced as Dan, nothing less or more, per Phil's word. Then he's placed into an even more cramped box with Phil and a bunch of microphones and buttons, to which Phil spends fourty-three minutes and thirty-two seconds explaining how each of them work, then allowing Dan to fiddle awkwardly with them for five minutes before they had a practice run. It was kind of easy, Dan has always liked public speaking and acting, mostly just forced out of those area's because of his heritage, and he felt like he was in full swing in the first twenty minutes.

After an hour of practicing, Phil apparently is pleased with his performance and Dan is then shuffled away from everybody and showed around the building, Phil talking a mile a minute—albeit slightly more awkward than Dan himself—about the various areas and where Dan can and can not go. Phil, during the whole time, doesn't ask about Dan's family once. Doesn't even seem all that keen on being distant, either. Simply smiles and is the same bucket of glitters from the first two minutes Dan met Phil. Dan feels slightly mystified.

"Any questions?" Phil offers, just as he's shoved a cup full of coffee into Dan's hand without even bothering to ask if Dan likes coffee, before guiding Dan towards the entrance ready to push him out the building with excited chirps of 'next week will be great! Just do as you did today!' and Dan isn't sure what's weirder, the lack of a murder 101 questionnaire or the fact Phil has literally managed to not care whatsoever about absolutely anything relevant to Dan aside from the fact they'll be co-workers.

"Um, no, I think I'm good." Dan squawks awkwardly, feet shuffling as he holds the cup unsteadily in his hands. He vows to dump the thing in the toilet when he get's home, mostly because he isn't exactly  _fond_  of coffee, and secondly because weird thoughtful things like this gives him hives. Phil pauses, a long haul in the conversation as though to give Dan a moment to change his mind and start rapid firing questions out as though he's truly interested and pleased about this opportunity instead of just having shifty butterflies in his stomach at the mere thought of once a week leaving his house. After 56 seconds, like most people in Dan's life, Phil is sorely let down by the lack of questions.

"See you Monday then!" Phil exclaims, letting the door shut behind him as he walks off.

Dan manages to get home under 5 minutes, ends up drinking the entire cup of coffee—it had  _way_  too much milk and his stomach now hurts—and stars Phil's email. It feels important. Like he should remember this exact email Phil sent him, because well, it isn't like Dan ever get's emails from random non-relative non-employer related peoples. Phil, in a way, seems special. Not in a life altering way, just  _special_. Like a child that needs coddling because everybody in his class can already count on their fingers but he can't decipher the difference between B and D like all potential-idiot children do.

 _Love, Phil Lester_.

He reads it again for the sheer stupidity of it all.  _Love_ , when was the last time anybody addressed the word love towards Crooked Dan?

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Out of the many children his father had killed, or the more politically talk-show way of putting it 'the children that had passed in a tragic tragedy', which is absurd. People just like to be coddled.  _Passed_ ,  _forced_ , all simplified words meaning,  _dead, rape_. But those sound dirty, wrong, like the truth. People don't like the truth. Either way, out of the children that had passed on due to his father's lunacy, there were a mere 3 boys. All under the age of 10. To which one actually survived, Dan doesn't bother to know the survivors names. Why would he? He feels like him knowing their names would just defile them even more. It isn't like he can do anything, and sometimes he does ponder about sending a fruit basket but decides against it because what's a bigger  _FUCK YOU_  then getting a fruit basket from the son of the guy that turned your entire life upside down.

His mother, in the first few months after the accident, tried writing letters of apology to the families. Each one had been the same; either she would be ignored or she'd get a letter sent back full of naughty words that should be banned from the English language. His mother keeps all the letters she had received back, maybe as a way of reminding herself that she's just trash, something akin to the way Dan keeps the letters he receives from his father's fans. A way of reminder of what not to be. Well, Dan usually ships off the letters, after photo-copying them, to the police. It's a good system, he get's reminders and the police find gross pedophiles. In some way it gives his life a propose.

It's only until Dan is doing his typical 2 AM martyr routine does it hit:  _Phil Lester_ , why does the name seem so familiar? He sits there trying to remember why Phil Lester would be a name somewhere in his memory bank, sleepily blinks his eyes, and remembers he has an internet connection.

FOUR YEAR OLD PHIL LESTER SURVIVES KILLINGS OF THE HOWELLER

Well fuck.

Dan is a man that believes in avoiding confrontation, mostly because usually people will just stop talking to him if he doesn't really try to fix their relationship issues. This is not one of those times, almost in a fury he leaps for his phone, redials the only other number that had called him in the past three days and sits there sweating and panting until there's ringing.

"Dan?" Phil sounds confused, which he might as well be because why would Dan be calling him at 2 AM? "Is something the matter?"

"You're one of the victims," Dan breathes out in a rush of air, he suddenly feels like he's been punched in the chest with a sack full of rocks.  _Guilt_ , psychiatrist chimes happily in the back of his thoughts.  _Fuck off_ , Dan hisses back at the voice then remembers he's currently speaking to a live human being instead of his self-made persona's inside of his head. Phil is quiet for a moment before he's chuckling nervously. "Why would you even bother speaking to me? Is this a sick joke?"

"Sarah said you aren't a bad guy," Phil says, as though that's an explanation, then as though realizing Dan probably has no idea what that even means, "She said you're a big reclusive because you live with the guilt of what your dad did. She actually thought it'd be kind of weird for a victim and the Howeller's son to be working together, but I mean, you aren't your father so I don't see what it matters. It isn't like  _you_  did anything."

"I might as well have," Dan confesses, "Everybody sure treats it that way."

"I was surprised you even answered my email," Phil says softly, voice teetering between shyness and sleepiness, "I thought you'd either ignore it thinking it was a cruel joke or like send me some sort of five page essay of apologies."

"I don't really bother with the names of the survivors," Dan tacks on and regrets it because that sounds completely heartless.

"Good good. No point in bothering."

"I—"

"Either way, don't worry about it. I know what it's like to hate the past that comes with your name. Night, Dan."

The line goes dead before Dan can even say ' _Night_ , _Phil'_  but he just sits there, laptop screen turning black from disuse and he feels dizzy.

 _I know what it's like to hate the past that comes with your name_.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Life is fucking sick.

Not 'sick' in the sense like those fourteen year old boys smoking cigarettes they've sneaked out of their mother's purse saying ' _yo, that's sick man_!' like the word sick has suddenly become some sort of stupid lingo for cool, exciting—but sick in the sense of  _sick_ —sick like a dying mother holding the hand of her child as she breathes out the last of the air in her lungs, sick as in starved Indian children, sick as in a human will forcibly rape another human.  _Sick_. That sort of sick. Life is fucking sick. Him and Phil get along. Actually get along. They write dumb notes to each other on pink notepads and post them around each other's houses, they'll take dumb photos of each other, tell dumb jokes and Phil has even managed to name every rock outside of Dan's apartment.

Dan finds it more absurd that he knows every one of the rocks names, too. The brownish blue one is Winston, the pinkish white one is Susan and the list goes on. There's fourty-five names, fourty-five rocks. Five months since Dan's life has changed. He goes outside now, he makes friends—friends that're Phil's friends, friends he met through work, friends he met in bars—he's managed to even go out on a Friday like a normal human being. Phil brings upon normalcy in his life. Phil  _is_  his life in a sick sense, like Dan was a deflated balloon and Phil has been huffing and puffing until Dan's finally managed to stand up-straight. Dan never really thought he needed saving, and he sure as hell never thought an ex-Howeller victim would be doing the saving, but Dan feels more thankful to Phil than the mother that gave birth to him.

He even makes a Facebook.  _Dan Howlter,_  mostly because in a tiny-bitsy way he isn't ready to confess to his newly acquired friends who he really is. The name was created with Phil, the two of them combining their last names to create a semi-related but  _different_  name for Dan. Dan feels reborn. Crooked Dan feels like he's standing straight, like the hunch in his back has been pushed forward, all his bones properly clacking into place. Dan sighs, pen tapping against his mahogany desk, blankly staring to the email his mother had sent him about this years Christmas party. Almost five months have passed since Phil came into his life,  _five._  It doesn't seem like a lot, but Dan's life now revolves around Phil Lester: they'll go shopping together, eat meals together—and Dan always marvels how happy it is to eat with another person actually happy to be eating dinner at the same table as him—they decorate Dan's room with glow in the dark stickers, Phil forcibly putting his dumb cat stickers along the side of Dan's piano and everything inside of Dan chants  _Philphilphilphilphilphilphil_  like a dying person's last breath.

Either way Dan has become so clouded with happiness about his current state of life he's managed to forget his roots: for a moment he was really deluded into thinking he could be Dan Howlter and not Daniel James Howell. His spine is dragged downwards, his back arching into a circular form as he crouches on his couch, eyes blurry as he glances at the email.

 _Hey Sweetie_ ,

_Your aunt has decided that since it's been 21 years since The Accidents that we should have Christmas Eve dinner with the families and surviving victims. They've all said yes, so make sure you wear your nicest suit._

_See you soon._

_Mom._

Dan was almost expecting the cute ending of ' _Love, Mom_ ' like how Phil always ends his emails, and is almost disappointed by the lack of emotions in his mother's email, then catches himself. Lately he's gotten needy, began to expect things out of people again because Phil never lets him down. Phil always leaves ' _Love, Phil!_ ' at the end of his emails, Phil always texts and calls him, Phil goes out with him, Phil smiles at him, Phil see's him for something aside from his father's shadow. It's dangerous to do that though, to expect things out of people, people don't owe him anything. Nothing at all. Dan almost catches himself, breath caught in his throat, and neither does Phil. Phil owes Crooked Dan nothing, nothing at all.

He glances at his phone, smiling at the four texts Phil has managed to send him in the past twenty or so minutes Dan has went off to la-la land, and feels grounded again. Being away from Phil for too long is bad for him, like a drug addict about to relapse, he starts thinking like Crooked Dan instead of Phil's Dan.

_From Phil_

_There's some sort of Howell pity party_?  _Do you think the cake will have burning kids_?

Dan snorts.

_To Phil_

_Will you be there?_

Dan almost panics. What if Phil  _isn't_  there? He'll be the same Crooked Dan and his mom won't see him for what he's become. He wants to show her, show her that he isn't the crooked little boy he grew up as, that his spine has straightened and that he can smile and be sincere and feel at ease in his own skin. Without Phil he won't be able to do that, especially with a bunch of dead people's relatives that his own relative caused. Why is his aunt even throwing this sick party? Dan hits  _call_  without really thinking, feeling as though he should be asking Phil these questions with voice-to-voice conversations instead of through text.

Phil answers the phone laughing.

"Stop panicking, Dan." Phil says, knowing exactly what Dan is panicking about because Phil is a godsend. Honestly, at this point Dan wouldn't be too shocked if Phil suddenly sprouted wings. "I'll be there, my mum was the one that pretty much pushed for this party. You know my mom was always against how much people bullied you and your mum. Always nagged everybody else to apologize."

"It's okay," Dan breathes out,  _good_ , he thinks to himself,  _Phil's mom is a godsend too. Good_. It makes him feel better to think that there'll be Phil x2 at the party, maybe it's Phil-but-not-really-Phil, but she holds the same genetics as Phil and anybody related to Phil is a godsend in Dan's mind. "You promise to be there?" Scared-under-developed-ego Dan echoes in the back of his mind ' _he doesn't need to promise you anything, Dan_ ' but he hushes it, soothing himself into the soft breaths of Phil, thinking of Phil and him laughing and telling stories about their workplace at the dinner table as everybody smiles to themselves like oh, boys will be boys no matter how old. He berates himself, because a bunch of people with skeletons hanging off of their shoulders aren't going to be doing much smiling, but Dan hopes to god there'll be some ease in the thick tension.

"Night, Dan."

Dan opens his mouth ready to say his own greetings—

The line falls dead, and Dan pursues his lips. How does Phil always manage to do that? He feels almost as though he should call again and say 'Night, Phil' so they can finally be even, but decides against it as the commercials on the TV end and suddenly he's distracted.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

There are a bunch of long faces, and Dan sucks in a deep breath as he realizes that the party isn't really what he expected. For one they're reporters sitting outside the door, leaping up in over-abundant excitement when Dan is pulling up into the driveway, Phil shoots him a side-ways worried look and Dan almost empties his stomach's contents onto Phil's mother's car. One of the families called the news, they were going to make this some publicity stunt instead of just letting it be what it's supposed to be: a mourning, a reminder and forgiveness. He should've known better. Why would Crooked Dan be forgiven?

"Let's just go," Phil says, shooting Dan wry looks.

"No. It's okay." Dan says, smiles, but feels like it doesn't work because he shows too much teeth and Phil retracts from him at the look. Phil's mother looks worried, pulls in anyway, and Dan get's out of the car first. He's used to cameras and reporters, his entire childhood was reporters trying to get inside the head of the Howeller's remaining DNA. Sick, sick, sick DNA. Dan wishes he could explain to them that if he could rip out every cell in his body related to his father, he would, but he can't so here he is. Trapped by the past once again.

A camera flash blinds him momentarily.

"No one is here for interviews," Dan says slowly, as though speaking to dumb invasive children, "Please leave."

"How do you feel about the murders?"

"It's been 21 years, have you gotten in contact with any of the victims?"

"Do you feel guilty over your father's crimes?"

His head aches. Phil is hurrying out of the car, and suddenly everybody is silent, as though lowering there voices not to scare a wounded animal. Dan's eyes flicker, anger flooding through him at the sudden change of attitude. They'll be rude to him but suddenly Phil is there and they're acting as though Phil is some delicate china and—Dan freezes, realizing, people treat Phil like a victim. Well, Phil  _is_  a victim. But they still treat him like he was as child. Something to be handled carefully.

"Dan," Phil says gently, hand coming to touch the back of Dan's shoulder, smile soft and tired. It's a familiar touch, something that leaves the reporters hesitant to question further.

A brave woman asks, "What's your relationship?"

"Friends." Phil answers quickly, well-practiced. "Please try not to hound the other families, it might have been 21 years ago but wounds like that never really heal." Phil says more strongly and then pushes a stupefied Dan forwards and into the house, Dan feels as though lately he's been feeling that emotion more and more. Soft Phil just told a bunch of reporters off in the nicest way possible. Soft, victim Phil protected murder-related  _Dan_. Once they're shuffled in, Dan realizes that there's muffled crying coming from the living room, a large group of more elderly people than Dan see's even in old age homes.

He almost forgot that most of the parents are now hitting close to 40 or 60.

How strange.

"Hey," Phil says, all seemingly very normal to him. Dan shoots an awkward glance towards the elderly woman in the center sobbing over an old photograph of a child. Phil doesn't look to him, simply taking his hand off of Dan's back and saying hey to everybody, with their names included. It feels odd. No, it reminds Dan of something: despite how close him and Phil are, Phil was once a group with these people, once a upon a time he probably hated Dan as much as everybody else. Hell, even Dan hates Dan. They're two girls, obviously not parents, one of them dressed in a long skirt and a modest ugly looking sweater and the other one has piercings on every inch of her face, is overweight and reeks of cigarettes.

Dan can't tell which one of them is handling the post-victimization better.

"Hey Carol, hey Lacy."

"Hey Phil," the piercing-one answers back, not smiling in retort and Dan shuffles behind Phil, feeling like a misplaced sock. He should've never come. What did he hope for? To be forgiven? For  _what_? All he's going to do is hurt these people that've already been hurt more than they really should have and, Lacy looks to him, her eyes sharp. "Are you Daniel James Howell?"

Daniel James Howell.

The way his name rolls of her tongue it sounds as though she's spitting out poison. He instantly realizes she is not a godsend like Phil. He shuffles awkwardly, looking towards Phil with hopeful eyes, seeking for some sort of refugee. He mentally thinks of potential topic-starters like ' _Hey, I'm Dan. My dad fucked your entire life up. How's that weather?_ ' He looks to where his aunt has laid out a bunch of weird looking cheeses with sticks in them. "Hey, I'm D—" he almost trips, Phil laughs and catches him by the arm and Dan's entire face goes red, "—an... This is awkward."

Lacy looks about ready to shove one of the cheese sticks into his eyes.

"Wait Dan is this your aunt's house?"

"Oh yeah," Dan shifts, looking to where his aunt has decided to take down any pictures pertaining him and his mother. Dan takes a subconscious step closer to Phil when he realizes that there's an old man glaring holes into his general direction. "We always have Christmas dinner's at her house. Never mine." He rolls his eyes over the crowd, feeling sick, absentmindedly he adds, "Want me to show you the One Direction poster?"

"The one your niece has on her roof?"

"She can't get it off," Dan cackles, slipping past Lacy and Carol with a timid nod, Phil following behind him.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Dan successfully spends the entire night apologizing and avoiding. Rinse and repeat.

Words, like a numbing prayer, become dull to him. After the first five conversations in which some old lady or man mentions the fact Dan's father murdered their little girl in a very non-subtle way as though  _Dan_  had anything to do with the events, and Dan's awkward apologies followed by awkward facial expressions and Phil easing Dan away from the conversations whenever possible.

The night ends with Phil chatting with his mother about their work, just as Dan is close enough to hear Carol whisper, "Phil has gotten close to the Howell boy."

Dan makes sure to keep his head turned, not sure why, but he feels the sign of ' _BAD IDEA_ ' suddenly slapped to the front of his thoughts in neon yellow. He feels his stomach knot, watching Phil smile gently to his nervous guilt-ridden mother.

"Are you surprised?" Lacy grunts, rolling an unlit cigarette in-between her teeth. "He doesn't deal with it the same way we do, he's not a victim anymore he's a—"

Dan's ears ring so loud he has to run to the bathroom to puke the remaining dinner he just had.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Dan wakes up from his reverie to his phone constantly buzzing beside him.

He had run out of his aunt's house so quickly, bare-foot with panic on his face, reporters flashing their camera's, puzzled worried looks—almost unsure if they should ask if he's okay or not—but Dan's skin rubs raw against the pavement, his phone rattling in his jean pocket. Lacy is just a fucking bitch, Dan repeats,  _Lacy is just a fucking bitch_ , and repeats, hoping the words will soothe him. Lacy is just a jealous bitch that Phil is functioning even after those terrible fucking things happened to him. Forgiving and saintly enough to fucking  _forgive_  Dan. Phil is everything to him.

Fuck Lacy for trying to ruin that.

Fuck  _her_.

He rips open his bedroom door. He's almost choking on air, lungs ran raw, his feet bleeding but he sits there, cradling the big black box of reminders. He doesn't want to open those memories anymore, he wants to run to Phil's house, hide under Phil's covers and pray to God to not take this away from him. Anything but this. He doesn't want to be Crooked Dan anymore, he just wants to be a goddamn normal person and live a goddamn normal life. He isn't his father, if he could scream it out to the world, write it in pink cursive writing and hold up signs all over the world he fucking  _would_. His hands are shaking, he debates the pros and cons.

What if there really is a letter addressed to him in this pile? A letter from  _Phil_.

He tears open the lid, breath holding short as he skims through the large pile, eyes landing on a particular letter he remembers he had found really odd when he was 14. It was in a bright blue, the writing in lots of different colours, the whole letter looked like it was dipped in some sort of pokemon themed letter and as a 14 year old, Dan had found it so incredibly  _disturbing_. How could people go as far as to make a murder-fan letters look aesthetically  _pleasing_?

"Dan!"

Dan's shoulders jolt forward, sucks in a deep breath because Phil has a key to his place. No need to get jumpy. Don't get worried. People just like making shit up, people have always made shit up about him. ' _Dan Howell eats people like his father did_!' or ' _Dan Howell wants to burn us, help us, help us_!' none of them were ever true. Lacy is just a jealous bitch. Jealous. But jealous never means  _unreasonable_ , why would she make up such heartless rumours about Phil? Phil is a good person. A much better person than he is.

"Dan, you forgot your shoes." Phil calls, voice gentle, and Dan hears his weight make Dan's creaky-cheap stairs whine in protest, "Are you alright?"

Dan licks his thumb nervously, and flicks open the letter.

"Dan?"

 _I'm a big fan_.

Phil is calling him. _His_  Phil is calling him. He opens his lips to call out he's fine, chapped bleeding desperate sounds, anything would really do at this point. But Crooked Dan is a fuck up. A fucking A class fuck up.

_Hope we become friends soon!_

His door creaks just as Phil pushes it open, and Dan drops the letter as though it had burned him.

 _Love, Phil Lester_.

When was the last time anybody had ever loved him?

 

 

 


	2. how deep is your love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I originally posted this as it's own separate thing but then i realized ppl couldn't really find it sOOO i'll post it as a chapter here 
> 
> It wasn't that Phil longed to return to the past, he just wants Dan to want him. That's all. Part two to 'Skeleton Songs'.

He doesn't remember.

He was four years old when he became a ' _victim_ ' to the Howeller. What was his past, the worst trauma of his life— _apparently_ —was always being played out by other people. Phil never really  _truly_  could grasp the concept that he was 'something to be pitied' simply because he couldn't remember a single moment of his time spent with Dan's dad. How are you supposed to mourn a past you cannot remember? How is it that he's weighed down so heavily by something he has never really  _known_. His sorrows are always played out by other people, the wince and regret in other people's faces whenever Phil says his full name, the cradling of old women and his mother ' _oh dear, oh dear, you'll be alright_ '.

Sometimes, when he was a child, his psychiatrist had feared that young fresh from the murders Phil was simply repressing the memories. Maybe. Sometimes he'll look too long into an open flame and hear screams ringing in his ear drums, sometimes he'll dream of children hanging by violin strings from the ceiling. Whether they're actual memories or memories he's invented because everybody  _wants_  him to remember, he doesn't know.

Lacy and Carol never understood this concept, that he could simply just  _move on._  But he hasn't, not really. It's hard to move on from something that hangs from his shoulders, it sits there with bony fingers, digging into him, wispy dark breath hollowing out into the shell of his ear. It's always there, always whispering  _sing louder, be prettier, shush Phil just_  - and repeats, repeats and repeats. When he's 11 he tries to cut out the sound by bringing a kitchen knife to his ear, ends up stabbing his earlobe as his mother  _howls_  in terror. Phil doesn't remember very much from any point in his childhood, nothing really clicks until he's 15, but he remembers the droplets of blood splattering over the white tile, seeping into dark blotted dots, and remembers being so fascinated.

Oh how beautiful it is to see his blood fall.

He was propelled to want to hurt himself more,  _Phil I need you to be perfect, Sophia has too many scars on her knees, so ugly so ugly so ugly_ , but stopped. There wasn't really a reason to begin or to end, it was simply an act of childish cruelty towards himself. Maybe self loathing. He doesn't belong to himself, not his sorrow, not his memories, not his past present or future. Everything he does is boiled down to his captor, to Dan's father. Everything boils down to him. A part of him felt lost, like he wasn't supposed to be wandering around without a leash, and that's when it all began.  _Howell_  was a name he religiously avoided out of fear, or maybe hate, or maybe a bit of both, but at age seventeen, at the pinnacle turning point of his life all he could think is  _I want to die I want to die I want to die I want to die I want to die_  and suddenly the thoughts where so  _heavy_. It hurt. He thought, he thought that maybe the Howeller's son would bring him the answer.

Phil may have forgotten, but people sure as hell don't want him to forget. Whenever he introduces himself people always give a small wince, an awkward apology and then things simply fade off from there. It's very, very hard to make friends when everybody simply wants to pity him. Maybe the loneliness is what compelled him at first, the crunching overwhelming need to be understood and not  _pitied_ , so he wrote a four page letter to the Howell son. He edited it again, for the third time, ended up buying a neo-electric blue piece of paper, slapped on some pokemon stickers to the corner of the page, and ended up with a simple four sentences.

He was hoping not that Daniel James Howell would be his friend, not really, just that Daniel James Howell would turn out to be someone more pitiful than himself. The Howellers son is always plastered on local newspapers, and like an addict Phil collects clippings like 'The Howellers Son beats up four kids at school!' he sniffs around for indirect rumours about him, listening in on how Daniel James Howell tried to audition for a play, got turned down despite being the best actor of his age group casting simply because he's the Howeller's son. This addiction to confirm his own worth through the walking-talking tragedy that is Daniel James Howell lasts until his early adult years until The Dreams began.

Sometimes The Dreams were of Dan holding him by his neck, the tips of his fingers pressing too hard into Phil's delicate snow white skin, leaving peppered bruises, some light green some a dark oceanic blue, some a gross musty yellow. The Dream Dan would always hold Phil too roughly, shield Phil from the world in a psychotic way. Dan always wanted Phil to be his, only his,  _his_. The thought always had Phil gasping over the toilet, wanting to throw up because the coil in the bottom of his stomach was always hotter than the burn in his throat. He wanted to be scared, to yell out of his window and beg to God why this has happened to him. All he wants is to be normal, or half-normal, he'll grasp at straws if that's what it takes.

The Dreams don't stop, and the first time Phil has sex he can't get hard, his girlfriend cries and the ringing in his ears is so loud it deafens him for two days straight.

_Pretty Phil, you're so pretty Phil. My pretty, Pretty Phil._

He moved to London for University. He got the first job that'd take him. He ran away so far from his home his mother wondered if he was suffering side-effects of his trauma, but how does one explain to their mother that he isn't afraid of his trauma? No, no, he's  _turned_  on by it. He cradled his head, staring down the stairs with a knife grasped in his left hand, and wondered why death is always such a tantalizing thought of sweet relief. It's always been there, licking his neck, walking up his thighs, wrapping around his ankles and trapping him. It's always there. The whisper is always there,  _Pretty Phil, Pretty Phil, I don't want you to die but I need you too_.

Why does he need to die?

As a teenager his mother would always say they're the blues. The Blues, as though his dark twisted thoughts were some sort of Sunday ending theme song title, and in a way thinking of it as The Blues helped suppress them. They'd speak to him, and Phil would chirp back that they're just blue and he's yellow, so they just aren't going to work out. But he's getting older, his bones are getting heavier within him and it's hard to look at himself in the mirror anymore. The Dreams depress him the most, they always tie him down with the most negativity. Why would he seek out the son of the man that hurt him?

But he did.

It was stupid of him. He knows. Sara had been speaking about Dan being one of their online reporters, being a big reclusive because no one likes him, and Phil had begged her for Dan's e-mail. He needed  _this_ , he needed to confront Dan. To come to terms. It brought happiness to him, getting an e-mail back, as though his existence had been finally validated.

He really just wanted Dan to want him. He wanted Dan to fix him, and maybe, Dan already did.

Sometimes he's not really sure.

"Phil," Dan breathes out, voice winded as he shoves the electric blue letter that Phil had sent  _years_  ago back into the box, head snapping in Phil's direction with a wild look of fear. No, no, this is not what he wanted. He wanted to be the one that fears Dan, not the other way around, he wants Dan to hold power over him he doesn't want to be the one holding power over Dan—he frowns, fixes his stance, and then brightly smiles to Dan—Dan shrinks, obviously unnerved.

"I wondered why I never got a reply," he looks to the box, overflowing with different letters, some made of newspaper clippings, some with crooked letters, some in blotted red ink, all of them are shoved into a tiny black box. He remembers Dan telling him that he photocopies all the letters before he sends them to the police, something about a reminder, Phil had simply saw it as a tie to the past. "I thought we'd be good friends," Phil smiles hesitantly, trying to make himself smaller before Dan. Dainty. Smaller. Submissive. "Nobody wanted to be my friend, and I thought, hey? Who'd be better than an outcast like myself."

Dan allows a puff of air to be pushed out his lungs, and Phil realizes he had said the exact words Dan had wanted to hear. Dan just wanted to know Phil wasn't a freak. Yet, Phil knows that this in the end is all an act, a play like the Howeller had used to make him and the other children play out in musical lyrics, that he's putting on for Dan. He's putting on the best performance, a broken wounded animal that needs the licking of somebody from the same species as him. Dan likes him that way, likes to be assured that Phil would be broken if Dan wasn't around, maybe not consciously but subconsciously Dan acts out the roles Phil has pushed onto them. Subconsciously Dan dominates Phil, he likes to make the choices of where they'll go to eat, what they'll do for their radio show, he likes to know Phil will put him first and foremost and flickers in jealousy if Phil speaks to people when he's not around Dan.

Phil prefers it that way.

' _Phil get's what Phil wants_ ,' Dan always jokes.

Oh, if only he knew.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Phil was expecting a sort of rift between the two of them for a while: something for him to repair with fake smiles and cooing words, reminding Dan just who he belongs too, but Dan easily bounces back, putting the letters to the back of his mind and allowing himself to slip back into regular routine: call Phil when he wakes up, ramble about his dreams, Phil will then ramble about his non-fire related dreams—he doesn't mention the dreams of children hanging by threads, tiny glassy eyes rolled to the back of their eye sockets, smiles sewn into a permanent happy-daisy smiles all dolls manage to withhold—instead he mentions the happier dreams: it's all an illusion, all a play. Happy Phil, Sad Dan,  _oh_ , sometimes Phil wonders that deep down maybe their roles are truly reversed.

"So, I was wondering if we should go see a movie this weekend." Dan says, almost casually, and Phil frowns at his calendar hanging opposite to him. Technically this weekend he has something to do for the BBC1, but he  _hates_  having to reject Dan. A primal fear—Phil chooses not to look too long or hard at this fear—that Dan will crack, anger exploding like a teapot left on the stove too long if he rejects Dan too many times. Last week, he had to reject Dan yet again.  _I'll have to tell them I can't work on the weekends anymore_ , Phil thinks off-handily.

"Yeah. I have work till 6 though, is that alright?"

He can almost  _hear_  Dan frowning on the other side of the line, "Why do you always work weekends?"

"I was always free before," Phil shrugs to this, thinking of how lonely and secluded his life truly was in the limelight before Dan had arrived. Dan had once said that Phil became his sunshine, a piece of Heaven that had landed on the tip of his tongue, and ever since Dan has become an addict to life that's not on the other side. Phil had found the metaphor strange, how had he fixed Dan's life? He had simply shared his friends with Dan, had became Dan's friend and had continued on with that. He doesn't understand how Dan can be so  _satisfied_  with their current situation. Phil wants more.

"Right," Dan scoffs, as if it's impossible to imagine Phil  _always_ free. As if the friends Phil has (distant, made in high school and he's never gotten around to moving on) probably filled in the space Dan is now occupying. But they never have, never will. Phil does not crave their company the same way he craves Dan's. How long have Dan and him been friends now? Maybe just a bit over a year, and yet Phil feels stuck: as though they're still stuck on day  _one_. Why can't they move forward? What is this wall that he see's before them? Is it created by his own mind, or does Dan feel it too—these are the questions that keep Phil stuck staring at the ceiling at late hours of the night, just into the early hours of the morning.

Why doesn't Dan  _want_  him?

"You should come over," Phil licks his lips. Throat feeling dry, as though he's stepping into the desert and this is it, this is where he becomes parched, this is the part where the sun leaves. "I want you to stay over," Phil isn't sure why but he almost expects instant rejection. As though no matter how sound he makes his logic, Dan will reject him.

Dan inhales, and in a rush of air exhales a shy, "Oh, yeah, sure."

 

 

~*~

 

 

They have sex.

Phil finds it's a natural event, something that was bound to happen sooner or later. Dan and him were never  _friends_ , not really. They were always something more, something less, something  _darker_. It was satisfying, to an extent, Dan was willing to do whatever Phil really wanted, choking, rough sex, Dan gave it all and more. A particular soft brand of violence, but it leaves Phil wondering darkly what it would be like to witness Dan's true nature of violence. Everybody has that part of them, don't they? That twisted sick part of them where they'll commit the most heinous acts in the name of love and freedom. Phil wants to see Dan on that brink of sanity, diving straight into the dark waters, an anchor tied to his ankles. To dive down and never resurface. He'll become  _Dan_ , the real Dan. The Dan that is like his father.

Phil awakes with Dan's name on his lips, a breathless echo falling as he pants, sweating and terrified. There's bits and pieces that he remembers, a girl looking at him glassy dead eyes, pupils blown even in the bright light as her voice echoes off the walls, a haunting melody and Phil sings with her. Their voices don't compliment each other in the slightest, and maybe, maybe that's why Phil sings until her throat is bared open, blood slipping down the front of her lithe torso until she collapses. Who killed her? A part of him see's glimpses of Dan, mad and covered in blood, but a more rational part of himself knows that it was probably Dan's dad. A memory, maybe.

How is he supposed to know?

"Phil?"

He doesn't even realize he's crying until he's going to rub his eyes from morning drowsiness. How embarrassing, the first night Dan and him wake up in each other's company and he's  _crying_. He almost kind of wants Dan to hit it out of him, but Dan simply looks concerned, soft finger tips reaching out to touch Phil's face. Phil makes a mistake in this exact moment, a mistake Phil knows he'll never be able to draw out. Phil smacks away his hand, shying away abruptly. "She died." Phil says, wondering why he's suddenly affected by his dreams, they never really hurt him this badly emotionally before, "She was killed because our voices didn't suit each other and  _h_ —" he realizes his mistake then.

Dan's open features close off, a sudden wall built between the two of them.

Phil has made a mistake much grander than simply admitting that he's scared of his past. He's admitted that Dan  _reminds_  him of his past. They have sex and then Phil has a dream about his past, about Dan's  _father_. Phil has committed the taboo of linking Dan and Dan's father into the same category. Something Dan not alone hates, but absolutely  _abhors_  even thinking about.

"I have them every night," Phil adds on, and it's not a lie. He just feels as though he should state it. "It's weird, in the daylight I don't remember a single thing, but when I'm asleep I always see these horrible things that I'm not even sure I ever saw. I don't want to ask Carol and Lacy, they're still trying to move forward."

Dan's rage subsides, awkwardly reaching out to wrap an arm around Phil's shoulders and drag him into him. Something Phil has realized about Dan, Dan loves physical contact of any kind. He likes to be bumping shoulders or knee's, he likes hugs and kisses, he likes stupid contact that Phil never would have thought about until Dan has come into his life. An inherent need Phil didn't know he needed; human contact. Phil sighs shakily into Dan's chest, subdued as a purposeful act to seem docile and broken. "I don't want to remember, either." Another truth. He doesn't. He doesn't need to remember, if anything, it would be best if his memories packed themselves up and simply left. Phil has no need for them and never will, it doesn't matter how many other kids died, he  _didn't_. Isn't that itself something to be happy about?

"Yeah," Dan chokes out, face burrowed in Phil's neck as he whispers softly, "I don't want you to remember either."

The dream seems so faraway all of a sudden, like a hazy summertime memory that wisps away, beautiful and fleeting but then it's gone and all that's before him is the man that he wants to destroy him, just Dan.  _His_  Dan.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

Lacy has her arms crossed, matching frowns with Carol who's taken to staring absently out of the window. Phil has heard about Carol and Lacy, whispers from their parents and relatives, whispers from their friends and everyone that's ever approached them. Lacy pretends to be tough, Phil heard her mother whisper, close to ears in the shadow of Phil's kitchen, but she's  _not_. Is what the sentence is always finished with. While Lacy seems to be a firm believer in hating everything in order to cope with the cruelty of the world, Carol has taken on the timid approach of hating herself. Phil thinks both of them are completely  _stupid_. They care too much, hold their hurt right on their sleeves where everyone can see it.

"What's this about?"

"You, and that Howell boy."

"Dan, you mean." Phil offers airily, looking towards to where his mom is making tea for the three of them. He knows she's probably trying to eavesdrop, and failing. Phil  _knows_  all the places in the house you can eavesdrop, and the kitchen is not a prime spot. Too much background noise. Lacy frowns more sharply at him, as though saying Dan's name is a sudden  _crime_. He get's it, he really does, he often loses himself in the distinction of Dan and his father, but Dan isn't  _really_  his father. Why does Dan have to atone for the crimes of some man Dan's never even  _met_?

"Phil, you have a problem." Carol offers gently. "I know you've always coped the weirdest out of us..."

"I don't need to cope. I don't remember."

"Right," Lacy grunts, fingers taping irritably against the crook of her arm. Phil has never liked Lacy, honest, to abrupt, to  _violent_ , as though she has a vendetta against everyone she meets and won't take no for an answer. Sometimes 'no' needs to be the answer, sometimes there's no answer but no. "So you seek out the son of the guy that almost killed you, and what, fuck him? Date him? Befriend him?"

"All of the above," Phil shrugs, "Dan isn't his dad."

"No he's not, is he," Lacy agree's readily, "But it sure is nice he has the same DNA for you, isn't it? You've always been  _fond_  of that bastard."

Phil frowns sharply at her. "What do you mean by that?"

"Lacy you're being rude," Carol adds in quietly, "Phil has suffered just as we have, just in a different way."

"I was  _four,_  I barely remember." Phil grunts back, glancing at his phone that emits a small light at a text from Dan who's currently with Louise. Dan is probably talking about Phil and their failing sex life because Phil had fucked up. He had mentioned Dan's goddamn  _father_  and now Dan doesn't want to touch him because he's damaged goods. Sexual abuse is something that's occurred to him before, twice, really. The few times by Dan's father and afterwards when he was 13 by a school counselor. Each time he hadn't really thought much of it afterwards, even when that dirty old man inched his hands up his thighs Phil wasn't really bothered, if anything it felt grounding and familiar to be reminded of the amazingly grand amount of terrible people in this world.

Carol is no better, Phil  _knows_  Carol only stays with her abusive boyfriend because the violence is harmonious to her, something to link her to her past pain. Lacy and Carol aren't any better than him, even if they like to pretend they are.

"Dan is a lot better than who Carol is dating," Phil decides to take aggressive action, frowning at both of them, "Dan doesn't hit me and treats me  _nicely_."

"It isn't you we're worried about," Lacy hisses back, teeth snapping at him like a vicious turtle, and Phil recoils.

Phil suddenly wants to laugh, and he does, slow manic laughter bubbling past his lips as he can see it now, Lacy and Carol whispering amongst themselves about how fucking fucked up Phil is and how he's probably going to slowly get Dan to re-create his dirtiest wettest dreams. And they're right! That's the funny part, he never really thought they could be so  _smart_.

He leaves abruptly after that, ignoring Lacy's dark threatening calls of ' _Come back here, we aren't done talking_!' before calling Dan up.

"I'm heading back home, meet me there?"

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 

"I'm going to tell you my entire past," Phil declares, motioning for Dan to sit down, "You probably don't know this cause it was never disclosed to the public at the request of the parents but your dad wasn't just a burning cannibal but he was also a pedophile," Dan recoils, eyes widening as he stops in mid-motion from reaching for his water. He needs Dan to sympathize with him and put sex off the table for a period of time before they can both move forward from this. He had jumped the gun too quickly, Dan isn't ready to become the  _Dan_  he wants, not yet. "But I don't remember, so it doesn't really bother me."

"Phil—"

"I don't remember because I don't want too, Dan," Phil whispers, wringing his hands as he looks off to the side, "But I like violence, I like to be controlled and I'm always scared of floating away or being cut open, not just by you, by everybody. Whenever I do something wrong I always think ' _oh god I'm going to die_ ' it's a knee-jerk reaction, you know, a survival instinct. But I'm just like Carol," he adds looking off to the picture frame containing a photo of him and Dan posing in front of a jellyfish tank, "I get off to that sort of stuff."

Dan pauses, eyes flickering in confusion.

"Rape, you know, when I was a kid I purposefully let my counselor rape me for months. It wasn't that I was scared of him or anything like that, despite what everyone said, it was just interesting. He'd always say 'I'll kill you if you tell anyone!' and I thought that was really funny, because it was like, why don't you actually kill me then? What's stopping you?" He had found it interesting to watch people immediately victimize him again, all jumping the gun to protect him from that 'bad, bad man' but Phil always had an access and the ability to ruin that man. He was never scared of him, not once. He did it all to work the guy up, to crank the chain until he was ready to let it all unravel. It was great to watch his daughter cry at the trial along with his wife as Phil recounted the many times he was raped. "I'm pretty crazy," Phil decides on in a mild hushed whisper, slightly  _embarrassed_. It's the truth though, and he's never told anyone that, "Even if I don't seem like I am."

Dan pauses, abruptly laughs in three short terrified scoffs before shaking his head, "Yeah. I mean, yeah, yeah I guess that makes sense."

Phil's eyes widen, looking down at Dan with a confused expression. "What do you mean?"

"You went through something really extreme," Dan says with a mild shrug, "If anyone came back normal from that I'd be more wary, it's more soothing to know how crazy you really are. But it was that guys fault, you shouldn't touch kids no matter how insane they are."

Phil smiles lightly, pressing the heels of his feet into Dan's upper thigh, smiling mostly for himself for a job well done. He was honest. He was honest, open and communicated in a relationship, if his psychiatrist—the one after the rapist one—could see him  _now_ , they would be thrilled. Dan smiles lightly, fingers pressing to grab his toes and squeezing them gently.

"I guess it makes sense." Dan says, the illusion of him looks happy and airy, the Dan that Phil always knows. The Dan that bought him flowers nervously and asked him about his favourite colours, the Dan that could never fit in with other's, the Dan that remembered all the silly names for the rocks outside his house. Suddenly, the grip on his toes goes stiff and hard. "You can't move forward from your past, and I can't be let go from it."

"Dan?"

"I'm okay with that," Dan says in a rush of exhalation, and Phil's lungs suddenly feel very full, "It's okay if we're both crazy together."

"Yeah," Phil agree's softly, closing his eyes to feel the rush of water wash over him. He doesn't want to remember.

He's okay with this Dan.

_For now_ , he amends.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well then, interpretive ending.
> 
> how do YOU think it ends? 
> 
> Also I kinda wanted to title this 'how deep is your love' but idk i kinda like Skeleton Songs, not sure but w.e it's just a title.


End file.
